


Fine Art of Making It Out Alive

by paragraph (ebcdic)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Daydreaming, Fantasizing, Imagined Accidental Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebcdic/pseuds/paragraph
Summary: Michael imagines he's somewhere else.





	Fine Art of Making It Out Alive

Michael hated days like these where everything was gray and it was hard to distinguish the sky from the ground from the fences from the buildings from the other cons. In his mind, he saw the sky as the sapphire blue of September and the fence in front of him as the floor-to-ceiling windows in his loft. The road into the prison could substitute as the River and the towering concrete walls as the canyon of buildings that made up the Loop spread out before him. If he let himself sink into the image, he could almost feel the hardwood floor against his bare feet and the sun warm him even through the thick glass. The sunlight would sparkle on the gentle waves of the River like diamonds, glancing off tour boats and reflecting against tourists' faces. He could see the lines and patterns of traffic below and the lack of structural integrity in a few of the bridges. His fingers twitched, aching for a pencil and a sheet of graph paper to sketch out an idea to reinforce one of them.

When a hand landed on his shoulder, he knew instinctively that it was Sucre and he blended the sensation rather than the owner in with the rest of his imagined world. Instead of Sucre, it was Lincoln standing behind him, his reflection floating in the glass next to his own as they looked into the city below their feet. The warm hand moved lower and sent sparks with every inch of skin it touched. When it came to rest on his hip, Michael turned around and gave Lincoln a small smile. Slowly, the hand moved back up, over his stomach and chest before coming to his shoulder once again. A soft push and he was up against the window with one of Lincoln's hands on his shoulder and the other cupping his face. There were words murmured too soft to hear and then the hot touch of lips against lips, teeth against teeth, tongue against tongue. His fingers scrambled for purchase against the glass as Lincoln pushed him further and further against it. 

The glass broke free of its hold and Michael fell with it toward the River. When he looked up toward Lincoln, his face was stoic, but Michael could read the hurt in his eyes even as he hurtled from the force of gravity into the cold embrace of the murky water.

"Scofield!" 

The harsh tone of a guard snapped Michael out of it. He turned to find Sucre frowning at him and he gave him a small smile and a shrug as he joined the other prisoners in the march back into the block. When he glanced toward the cage they kept Lincoln in, his brother's brow was furrowed. Michael could tell that Lincoln wanted to say something, to ask what was going on, but he stayed silent. The worry in Lincoln's eyes made Michael's fingers twitch, not for pencil and paper, but with the longing to touch, to heal, to love.


End file.
